


insult to injury

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon Route, Blood and Gore, Character Study, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Hallucinations, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dimitri never sleeps anymore.If he does, he doesn’t remember it. There are moments where the world seems to fade and return, though they feel entirely random. His mind and body never rest, persistently awake and alive. Maybe it’s a bad thing, because during these times, he doesn’t feel entirely ‘here.’There’s a ringing in his ears, cotton in his brain as he struggles to process thought. Usually he can’t, so he thinks in shapes, colors, and feelings rather than words or sentences. He forgets language and its intricacies, struggling to remember which letters and syllables go where. If not for Glenn visiting him on occasion, Dimitri probably would have lost his ability to speak.Or: After Garreg Mach falls, Dimitri's psyche crumbles with it.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Glenn Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35
Collections: Anonymous





	insult to injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to write a character study for Dimitri, so it's really cool that I finally got around to it! I hope you enjoy.

Time blends together. 

Hours to minutes, seconds to days. The academy gave him structure, once: a time to wake, a time to eat, a time to train, a time to sleep. Lather, rinse, and repeat. An ongoing, never ending cycle that was very much necessary at the time. His studies kept his mind busy and his hands steady. Having routine was necessary, and it probably kept him sane even during his most difficult moments. 

Now the world has plunged into darkness, much more lifeless than before. The trees that tower above him feel oppressive, a washed out green that looks sickly and unsettling. The leaves he crushes beneath his feet are pale and fragile, their dark veins nothing but skeletons of their former selves. The sky no longer reflects in the water that he drinks. It’s a murky blue that matches his eyes and soul. 

In contrast, red has only gotten brighter. 

He wonders why that is. 

* * *

If it weren’t for those he lost, he thinks he would have forgotten his name by now. 

Instead, the dead turn it into a reminder of that ache. 

They speak to him, whisper into his ear, and say _dimitri, you won’t be able to do it, you can’t kill her, i know you can’t, you’re too weak, you love her too much, you don’t love us enough, you won’t do this for us, you don’t care about us, you don’t care for our sacrifice, how we died for you, you were too weak to save us then and you’re too weak to save us now._

 _Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd_ , a failure, a worthless prince, a pathetic son. 

Nobody reminds him of this more than Glenn.

Sometimes, Dimitri sees his father. His stepmother, or even the guards who had been slayed protecting them. But for some reason, day after day, Glenn appears most. Maybe it’s because the extent of his guilt bleeds out to so many people he cares about: Felix, Ingrid, and Rodrigue all suffer because Dimitri had been too weak to protect him. It’s his fault and he knows it. 

Even so, Glenn’s presence isn’t comforting. He looks so similar to Felix, except older—long hair tied back in a braid, sharp cheekbones, gold eyes to boot. During the tragedy of Duscur, they were wide, bulging, terrified. It was the only way Dimitri could recognize him among the corpses, since the rest of him was too tortured and disfigured to bring his body back home. 

And when Dimitri kneels among the remains of Imperial soldiers, Glenn looms above him, casting a shadow that Dimitri has grown to recognize. But he hesitates before looking up, instead staring at Glenn’s boots for a little while longer, because he’s afraid. 

At times, Glenn looks exactly how he did right before he died: polished armor, a sword at his belt, and a blue cloak gifted to him by Dimitri’s father. During others, Dimiri finds his own memory of Glenn, mutilated beyond recognition and barely standing upright. Blood oozes from his glassy eyes, rolling down his cheeks like tears as he stares. The sight never fails to make nausea roll in Dimitri’s guts. 

However, the only way to know which Glenn will appear is by mustering up the courage to look at him. Dimitri usually does so out of desperation—his longing to see Glenn as perfect and regal usually triumphs Dimitri’s fear to see him as a walking corpse—but no matter what Glenn looks like, he always speaks the same words. 

“You love her more than us.” 

It comes out hollow. Even on a battlefield, or an Imperial outpost or camp, the sound of his voice always seems to echo. Nevertheless, it makes Dimitri’s guts churn. 

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, but Glenn only smiles above him. Sad and pitying, as he usually does during times like these. 

“Or you’re too weak to face the truth,” Glenn says simply, like it’s fact rather than opinion. “We died to protect you, and you can’t even do this in return.” 

“I _will_ do it,” Dimitri insists, curling his hand tighter around his lance. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” 

Glenn cocks his head with doubt, and Dimitri swallows down the sick feeling of guilt. It’s infested him for years, but with Glenn standing before him like this, it feels so much worse. Like it’s eating him alive and swallowing him whole, consuming every bit of him. This would be easier if they just had faith in him, but he understands why they don’t. During the tragedy, he could do nothing but let others die. 

His own weakness makes him sick beyond measure, so he kills and he kills to prove himself to them. He wants them to know his dedication, his sincerity, his loyalty. But it’s never enough to fill the void and they continue to hunger for more. 

He hungers for more. 

The scent of blood used to bother him. So did corpses, but now he revels in slaughter. Something about killing makes him feel lighter, like it lifts the painful weight from his shoulders. Like he’s coming up for air, like he’s finally able to taste after all these years. He’s free of restraint, order, and human law. 

This is what it feels like to be a monster, and it’s not as unpleasant as he thought it would be. 

* * *

Dimitri never sleeps anymore. 

If he does, he doesn’t remember it. There are moments where the world seems to fade and return, though they feel entirely random. His mind and body never rest, persistently awake and alive. Maybe it’s a bad thing, because during these times, he doesn’t feel entirely ‘here.’

There’s a ringing in his ears, cotton in his brain as he struggles to process thought. Usually he can’t, so he thinks in shapes, colors, and feelings rather than words or sentences. He forgets language and its intricacies, struggling to remember which letters and syllables go where. If not for Glenn visiting him on occasion, Dimitri probably would have lost his ability to speak. 

“Are you really eating that?” Glenn asks, dripping blood from overhead. Meanwhile, Dimitri pauses in mid-bite of his beef jerky, glancing up towards him.

“Yes,” Dimitri says slowly. His brain lags for a few moments as he tries to process a verbal reply. Words are becoming harder and harder to understand. “I found it on a soldier.” 

But Glenn looks at him like he’s disgusted. “Yeah? Can you even taste it?” 

_No._ It’s dry and difficult to chew, hard on his jaw as he tears it piece by piece. His mouth hurts often, though he suspects it’s from grinding his teeth. 

“If you were a better ruler, you would be able to take an army straight to Edelgard’s doorstep,” Glenn says, narrowing his eyes. “Now, you’re just a vagabond. A dethroned prince with no direction, eating commoner’s food from corpses.” 

“I didn’t know Cornelia was going to frame me,” Dimitri mutters, and Glenn barks out a bitter laugh. 

“Edelgard once said that your trusting nature would be your downfall, didn’t she? How sad that you’re proving her right.” 

Heat simmers beneath Dimitri’s skin, blood boiling with growing rage. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Glenn sits on his haunches to pluck the jerky out of Dimitri’s hand. 

“She must be enjoying a cup of tea right now.” Glenn inspects the strip of meat, clearly bored. Red drips from his ear now, rolling down the side of his neck. “A pastry too, for all we know. When was the last time you could taste either of those things?” 

Dimitri doesn’t remember and Glenn knows it. 

“What a wonderful life she must have,” Glenn continues, waving the jerky in front of him. Dimitri’s vacant eyes follow it, back and forth, left and right. “Why does she get to live, while we had to die? Even you, as pathetic as you are, are forever burdened by things she could never fathom. That doesn’t seem fair.” 

He can just imagine it: Edelgard on her throne, dressed in regal attire as she’s served by her loyal subjects. Served like the Goddess herself, without a care in the world as she’s thoroughly convinced that she can do no wrong… it makes him sick. 

So sick that his lips twitch, spreading into a giddy smile that he just can’t contain. 

“I’ll kill her,” Dimitri whispers under his breath. “I’ll kill her, Glenn, I swear it.” 

There’s a hand in his hair. It’s Glenn’s, ruffling the filthy strands and Dimitri feels sick. 

“Good,” Glenn murmurs, drawing closer. There’s blood dripping from his nose now, even the corners of his mouth. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be making things so much worse for you.” 

* * *

There’s something lonely about the aftermath of battle. 

Torn flags staked in the fresh earth. Broken shields, shattered swords, lances and spears with snapped shafts. Corpses as far as the eye can see, hidden in the grass that rises to Dimitri’s knees. They fell in battle and now they’re left to rot, with only scavengers to pick at their bodies. 

Animals tear at the swollen entrails that once hung from his lance, peeling pieces of human flesh from white bone. Fights are all too common: crows and vultures will flap their wings when coyotes approach, a pathetic attempt to scare them away. But with a fine row of sharp teeth, it only takes a few snaps of their jaws to put the birds in their place. 

Nature’s food chain. 

A hierarchy. 

But they all scatter when Dimitri approaches, making way for the wolf who’s risen to the top. An apex predator, a beast who hunts men. He lives to kill and he kills to live. Nothing more, nothing less. 

The emptiness he feels is mind-numbing. 

* * *

He gets reckless. 

Picking off soldiers one by one used to be the default strategy. Then, he fought two at once. Three at once. Four, five, even six. Killing earns him a high that seems to grow with each life he takes. It wouldn’t be wrong to say he’s an addict, adrenaline-numb and in seventh heaven. But when he falls back down to earth—or perhaps into hellfire, which seems a little more accurate—the wounds he suffers become apparent. 

There have been times when he hadn’t realized he was injured until a few hours afterwards, blood oozing from his deadly gashes and tears. Usually they aren’t life threatening, but if they are, the camps he raids have supplies to stitch himself up or bandage the worst of his wounds. Still, he never rests for long enough to fully heal. He’s too fixated, too obsessed with his goal. 

With Edelgard.

It doesn’t come without a cost. The pain might not bother him, but his growing number of injuries start to slow him down. His reflexes wane, his speed falls, and he slowly weakens. Eventually, there comes a time when he bites off more than he can chew: he attacks an Imperial camp without scouting it first, so he hadn’t realized there were a few more soldiers than expected. They launched a surprise attack once his guard fell, and while he slaughtered most of them with ease, one of the younger recruits managed to skewer her lance through Dimitri’s armor. 

He barely reacted in time—a split second later and it might have pierced his lung, since she aimed for his chest—but even if he broke her neck in the end, the lance snapped and left the steel head lodged in his flesh. With adrenaline pumping through his blood, he hadn’t even noticed the extremity of the wound until his vision began to fade in and out of focus. Then the pain came, dull at first, but it grew worse and worse by the minute. He leans against a nearby tree trunk for support, struggling to stay upright as the world swoops around him. 

But soon enough, his knees are buckling as he slides down, down, down until he collapses. 

With no strength to brace his fall, he hits the forest floor with a sharp groan. He tries to pull himself up off the ground but he can hardly move, a dizzy ache pulsing through his head. Every fiber of his being screams in protest, begging him to rest and recover for even a moment. 

“At this rate, you’ll die when you face Edelgard.” 

A familiar pair of boots approach, and with each step, the grass beneath shrivels and blackens. Dimitri swallows, his gaze instinctively flicking up towards Glenn as he stands before him. This time, he isn’t a corpse: his armor is elegant and pristine, without a single speck of red. Some part of Dimitri aches at the sight, even if Glenn stares down at him with disgusted eyes. 

(Catlike, amber eyes.)

(Felix’s eyes.)

“Well?” Glenn growls, clearly frustrated with Dimitri’s weakness. “Aren’t you going to pull the damn thing out?”

There’s blood in his mouth. He can’t taste it, but he knows the scent all too well as it dribbles from the corner of his lip. It doesn’t feel like the broken tip has reached his lung, but it must be dangerously close to doing so. 

With all the strength he can muster, he drags himself up to prop his body against the base of the tree. Even as moss cushions the back of his head, it takes him several moments to catch his breath. He screws his eyes shut as his sense of balance struggles to align with the new position, nausea rolling in his guts. His body aches so terribly, it feels like the adrenaline faded far too quickly this time. Or perhaps he’s become so numb from feeling it constantly, the effects are starting to wane. 

He gingerly touches the sharp, jutting fragment with a shaky hand. It’s slick with blood, too slick to grasp and yank out entirely. But his breathing is waning, labored as his vision blurs with exhaustion. 

“Look at yourself, _boar.”_

Glenn’s voice is suddenly so much closer, and… no, that’s a _different_ voice. Dimitri’s eyes snap open to find Felix straddled on his lap, arms crossed as he stares with that venomous, furious look. But he doesn’t look like how he did at the academy: his hair is long, just as long as Glenn’s, and it’s braided like his too. 

It makes him sick with guilt. 

“Felix,” Dimitri whispers. Like a prayer, something holy. 

“Glenn told you to take it out,” Felix says, curling his lip with disgust. “Aren’t you going to do it?” 

Dimitri feels like he’s falling. Tumbling from the sky, through the clouds. Felix… Felix isn’t dead. But he’s here regardless and Dimitri can’t imagine why. 

“You were right.” It hurts to say, each word sharp like glass. “I’m a monster, Felix.” 

“Of course you are,” he replies, petulant as ever. “The fact that you denied it at all was ridiculous in and of itself.” 

Dimitri laughs dryly, but it comes out pained. “I just can’t stop.” 

“Stop what?” 

“Killing people.” 

Felix cocks his head and Dimitri feels judgement upon him. It’s what he deserves, so he has no right to complain about such a thing. 

“You like it, don’t you?” Felix says it like a question, even if Dimitri knows it’s anything but. “It feels good to take lives. It feels like retribution.” 

_No,_ Dimitri wants to say. 

“Yes,” he actually says, breathless, like a confession. Like he’s fourteen again, fisting his white-knuckled hands in Rodrigue’s shirt as he begs him not to leave him with the voices. With his father and Glenn. 

But surprisingly, despite Felix’s obvious disgust, he leans closer. Closer than he’s ever been before, even as children, and his lips hover above Dimitri’s. It’s hard to breathe. 

“I hate it when you’re honest.”

Fingers plunge within the wound, yanking a pained shriek from Dimitri’s lips. His vision jolts with a sudden blur as his brain lags to process the shock. Something is tearing, ripping inside his chest and he can _hear_ it, his pulse drumming harder and faster as he struggles to breathe. However, the pain soon dulls to a sharp, pounding ache, and when his vision stabilizes once more, he finds the sight of the lance’s broken tip oozing blood between his fingers. The wound is tender now, the sinewed edges puffy and red. 

Felix is gone. He disappeared as quickly as he came, which shouldn’t be surprising. It’s a common occurrence with Glenn and his father, but some part of Dimitri wishes Felix were still here. 

He wishes he wasn’t alone, even if it’s what he deserves. 

* * *

It takes him longer than usual to recover. 

This is the first time he remembers sleeping, in the last several months at least. His body aches far too much to stand, much less travel onwards towards Enbarr. He didn’t want to stay at the Imperial camp—the corpses were sure to attract animals, or rogues who are all too eager to loot supplies—but he has no choice when he’s injured to this degree. 

Between broken ribs, sickly yellow contusions, and the gaping wound in his chest, he feels as terrible as he looks. The voices don’t help, creeping into his dreams even during times of rest. They never cease, condemning him for his weakness. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how many lives he claims, they continue to spit hatred. His father is angry that he has to wait longer, longer, longer still. 

_How could you, Dimitri?_

It repeats, looping and looping in his mind until his father’s voice tangles in itself. The words scramble, inaudible and nonsensical, just as they did when his father’s head was severed from his body: scream cut short as his tongue could do nothing but thrash uselessly. Fragments of language that would never come again. 

Night after night, Dimitri bolts upright, dripping sweat. Even in the warmth of this modest tent, his blood feels cold and he has to rub his arms to calm down, hug his torso even if it makes his body ache. It’s the only way to catch his breath when he wakes like this. 

In those moments, all he can think of is Edelgard. He’s possessed with a burning rage, a sudden urge to wrap his fingers around the paleness of her neck. He wants to hold her down, to crush her throat, to watch the light fade from her eyes. He wants to strike the fear of the Goddess within her. He wants to see her just as terrified as Glenn was when he died. He wants to make her regret every single thing she’s done to him. 

His hands curl into fists, squeezing until they tremble, until he laughs, tears in his eyes as he rocks back and forth, back and forth, digging his nails into his arms, picking and scratching at his skin to distract him. 

He’s never felt so desperate. 

* * *

When Dimitri starts moving again, he heads south. 

He isn’t completely healed, but he can’t afford to waste time. The voices won’t wait and neither can he. Enbarr is very far, and although he’s made progress, it still pales in comparison to the rest of the distance he must travel. He has no horse, nor are they an option at the moment. Not only would it be another mouth to feed, but around him, they get too skittish for him to even touch. 

It’s as if they sense the beast inside him. Something warped, something twisted. Or perhaps his bloodlust is just so intense at times, it makes them nervous. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He never truly travels alone, since he tends to catch a glimpse of Glenn or his stepmother flitting in the corner of his eye. While they don’t actually approach him, he hears a near-constant hum of muted whispers against the shell of his ear. Hovering there, never drawing too close or too far. He’s gotten enough sleep to keep them mostly inaudible, but his stability starts to wane as he begins to run longer and longer without rest. 

Then, he hears them again. 

Cries for help. Begging and pleading for Dimitri to save them, choked gasps as the life leaves their bodies, the vindictive demands for revenge. The voices only grow louder, persistent, relentless. 

Eventually, he approaches a stream and drops to his knees, dipping his shaky palms into the water. It’s ice cold as he splashes it on his face, a desperate attempt to snap himself out of this. Somehow, it works: the whispering retreats to a dull, static noise that he can barely make out. Hopefully it will keep his sanity for just a little while longer. 

Dimitri runs trembling fingers through his hair, grounding himself the best he can. Quite frankly, he feels drained. Not of energy, but of himself. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s escaped Fhirdiad—it could have been anywhere from a few months to a few years, though he thinks the latter is much more accurate than the former—but he’s begun feeling less and less like _Dimitri._

Who is he? 

What is he? 

What is he becoming? 

The stream flows past, bubbling and slow-moving. Tiny fish slip through the rocks and boulders, nibbling on the algae and gnats that settle on the surface of the water. It’s hypnotic to watch and Dimitri’s gaze shifts out of focus, following the fish as they swim. 

Time inches forward. His eyes droop lower and lower until they fall shut, leaving him kneeled upright on the bank of the stream. He feels so weary that his head begins to drop, chin resting against his chest as his hair falls. The voices continue to whisper all the while, barely drowned out by the sound of running water. 

This is killing him. 

Or rather, he’s been half-dead since the Tragedy of Duscur. Felix once said that the old Dimitri he knew was killed that day, and perhaps he was right. A part of him truly died, and maybe that is why these voices continue to haunt him. He’s caught between life and death, a purgatory, a nightmare that never ceases. He’s tortured by the things he hears and sees, but this is his fate.

This is his burden for surviving when others could not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially wasn't going to slip the dimilix in there, but I'm pretty hopeless. I know it seems implied right now but I've already written some parts for the second chapter that are a lot more focused on it. I'm not sure when I'll update this but I hope to soon. I really wanted to write something that explored Dimitri's psyche during the Azure Moon timeskip, so this was really fun to write. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, leave a kudos or comment about your favorite parts. It would be really nice to know what people liked about it so I can expand on those things and/or write more of it. But anyways, thank you so much for reading and have a wonderful day!


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